Page 72 of Catch Him
“Okay to sit down?”
“For fuck’s sake will you stop doing that!”
He jerked back, surprised by her outburst. Why wouldn’t he be? Mary was sweet and kind and soft spoken. She didn’t curse or swear. She didn’t fight back. She didn’t stand up to bullies—she let the men in her life do that for her.
Suddenly she was overcome with self-loathing, and she wanted to take that out on someone. She wanted to take that out on Flynn.
“Mary…” he began softly even as he took a seat.
“And don’t do that. Don’t talk to me in that voice you’ve been using. It’s your Mary-is-fragile voice and I hate it. It makes me feel foolish, and quite frankly it makes me want to hit you. How about that?”
He sipped his coffee and then set it down carefully. “I’m sorry.”
Same tone, she thought. So she leaned over and pushed his mug off the table. The coffee spilling. The mug cracking into pieces on the wood floor.
“You’re angry,” he said calmly. “You’re acting out. It’s understandable under the circumstances.”
“No, you can’t have any coffee. And no, I don’t want you to sit at this table with me. Go away, Flynn.”
He stood then. Again slowly and carefully, as if any sudden movements would cause her pain.
He leaned over to pick up the broken mug.
“It’s my mess,” she told him. “I’ll clean it. Just go.”
Then she saw it. A tick in his jaw. A single sign that her atrocious behavior was getting to him.
“Mary, I’m trying to understand why it feels like you’re blaming me for what happened. It’s been weeks and you barely talk to me. You haven’t texted me at all. And now this. I want to… I want to be what you need to get through this. Tell me how to do that.”
“Why?” she asked him.
“Why what?”
“Why do you feel the need to help me get through anything?”
He looked astounded and again hurt by the question. “I’m your friend.”
“No, you’re Dec’s friend. I’m just his little sister, remember?”
It was as if she sucker-punched him. He physically jerked back at her words, and it was if there was a sudden understanding about what was actually happening between them.
“You do blame me,” he said softly.
She flinched. It was petty and it was wrong. She knew it. The worst part though was that it was also true.
“Go away, Flynn.”
He turned and started to leave the kitchen, but stopped. His back still to her. “Your Irish comes out when you curse.”
“And what of it?” she asked, as if that had been the stupidest thing he could say.
“I like it.”
Then he left, and she was left with that and broken mug and coffee to clean up.
